Children at Heart
by Kadoatie
Summary: Fives times John saw Sherlock doing childish things, and one time he joined him. Epic friendship.
1. Crocodiles and Crayons

**I haven't finished a fanfic in _ages _(I say finished because I've got a bunch of unfinished ones gathering dust on my desktop)_. _It's good to be back! :)  
**

**The other day I was reading some 5+1 K/S Star Trek fanfiction when this little idea popped into my head. This is gonna be posted chapter by chapter because I write too long for my own good. *sigh***

**Anywho, I hope you all enjoy. I'm certainly enjoying writing these and coming up with ideas. :)**

**Beta'd by _virginger_. Not Brit-picked.**

**I don't own Sherlock. Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss own my heart, though. :(**

* * *

**1.**

John should've known this was coming. In his defence, however, he'd had three years without the consulting detective breathing down his neck, so it was only natural for him to forget what it was actually like living with the guy. He remembered the good times he had with the detective, of course: the adrenaline rush he got every time they had a case, moments when Sherlock played the violin to help him fall asleep when he got nightmares, and those little moments when John could see the more human side of him that not a lot of people got to see.

What John _didn't_ remember, however, was how irrevocably _irritating_ Sherlock Holmes really is.

He stared at the prone form of his flatmate lying on the couch, who was trying his best to be as ostentatiously loud as possible by sighing dramatically and shuffling around without actually falling off the damn thing.

(Sherlock didn't have to bother, actually. He had the ability to piss people off by just standing there. Just ask Anderson.)

But John digresses.

Sherlock was _bored_, and for once, John didn't know what to do.

If this had happened three years ago, John would've ignored him and left him to his own devices (with careful supervision, of course, he didn't want Prince Charles tied up in his kitchen again), but John didn't feel like suffering the wrath of a bored Sherlock Holmes – not when the joy and happiness of seeing his friend come back was still very much evident.

The doctor looked around the flat, looking for things that could entertain the man-child. He knew for a fact that Sherlock had been eyeing the murder that had taken place at Madame Tussaud's (how they couldn't differentiate between a wax figure and a corpse was beyond him), and he also knew that Lestrade was at the end of his wits. It was only a matter of time before Scotland Yard asked for Sherlock's help yet again.

John's eyes landed on a garishly bright, pink book lying on the coffee table.

During John's stay at his old military-pensioned flat after he moved out of Baker Street, he had the pleasure of meeting a young woman and her tot. The woman (who John later found out was called Dana) had lost her husband – a soldier stationed at Afghanistan – and was now living with their three year-old daughter, Rosie. Dana was frantically trying to find a job, knowing that the money she had with her wasn't going to be enough for Rosie to be raised properly, and John was more than willing to look after the child while she was out looking for a place to work.

Rosie was a good child, and John missed her dearly. She was vigorously artistic when it came to her colouring book, applying bright shades of pink and yellow to drawings of animals, breaking her crayons along the way. John was more than willing to settle down and colour with her. When he had left a mere month ago, Rosie, not fully understanding what was happening but knowing that her good old Unca Jawn was going to be leaving for good, tearfully gave the doctor several colouring books as a parting gift.

John was mused out of his memories by the sound of Sherlock's whine. "Jooooooooooohn. Bored. Do something."

"I can see that you're bored, Sherlock, but I have nothing for you to do," John sighed patiently.

Sherlock eyed the kitchen cupboard, John's revolver locked safely inside. The doctor followed his line of sight.

"Sherlock, no," John said sternly.

The detective whined louder.

John leaned over to snatch the pink colouring book from the coffee table and toss it onto his flatmate's face. Sherlock glared at the doctor before staring at the offending item. His eyebrows furrowed in thought.

"A children's book, John? You can't possibly be serious."

"If that's what it takes to shut you up, so be it," John said.

Sherlock opened the book and flicked over the pages. "This is preposterous, John, none of these images seems right! Look at this… this… this _mutant_ crocodile with an alligator nose, it's smiling! And why are all the animals white? Where are the colors? Are these the kinds of things people are teaching their children?"

John rolled his eyes. "It's a children's book, Sherlock, it doesn't need to be right."

Sherlock looked disgustingly horrified at this statement.

"And besides," John continued, "that's the point of the book, Sherlock. You're supposed to colour it in."

"…colour it in?" Sherlock said slowly, as if John had grown another head (which was a horrible comparison because John knew that if he _did_ grow a second head, he would be experimented on).

"Yes, Sherlock," his flatmate sighed exasperatedly.

Sherlock snarled at the picture of a zookeeper hugging a bear before throwing it to the floor. "That's ridiculous, John. Why would anyone want to do this? Wouldn't it be easier to look for pictures on the Internet? You're all so entertained by the most _pathetic_ things."

John rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration before standing up from his position on his chair. Sherlock's eyebrows rose as John rose.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

"I'm going to Mary's. Call me when Lestrade calls."

Sherlock harrumphed in response, turning his back on John and facing the couch. That was how John left him – checking the strength of the lock on the cupboard along the way – as he stalked out of the flat.

* * *

John hurried to get through the door, water dripping down his jacket-clad figure. Outside, the rain was pouring down unforgivingly, drenching the London streets. He held several bags of groceries in his hand as he finally managed to get inside and close the door.

Mrs. Hudson's head poked out from inside her flat.

"Evening, Mrs. Hudson," John greeted warmly.

"John!" she chided, moving out of the doorway and into the hall. "You're wet! Why didn't you bring your umbrella?"

"I didn't think it was going to rain…"

Mrs. Hudson tutted at him affectionately. "Oh, dearie! How can I ever stay mad at you? You run along now and go upstairs, and I'll bring you and Sherlock some tea. Does that sound good?"

John started climbing up the stairs. "And some biscuits, too?"

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper," Mrs. Hudson reminded him, walking back into her flat. John could hear the sound of the oven opening as he continued his ascent up the stairs.

"Sherlock? I'm back!" John called out. He pushed the door open with his free hand...

…and promptly stepped on a crayon.

A certain consulting detective was all over him in half a second.

"John!" he snarled. "I needed that!" Sherlock bent over and picked up the two pieces of the broken crayon before plopping down on the floor in front of the couch. The table in front of him was occupied by the colouring book John had thrown and about fifty crayons. Sherlock deftly removed the paper surrounding one broken piece and started colouring one area with smooth precision.

"Uh, Sherlock?"

"Not now, John," Sherlock silenced him with an absent-minded flick of his head.

The doctor stared at his form blankly. When his flatmate made no move to explain what he was doing, John stopped staring at him long enough for him to drop the groceries on the kitchen table before approaching Sherlock.

The picture the detective was focused on was already coloured, and from what John could see, Sherlock was currently adding shades to the smiling crocodile-slash-alligator he was complaining about earlier. John was surprised to note the beauty of the drawing – it was coloured as if it were a real animal. He was also slightly horrified at the realistic droplets of blood dripping down the crocodile's teeth, matching the blood found on the antelope's neck on the page beside it.

Despite the gruesome (yet incredibly artistic) method of colouring, however, John found himself smiling at his friend. "You having fun there, Sherlock?"

Sherlock snorted. He picked up a yellow crayon and started adding depth to the crocodile's teeth. "No. I'm merely correcting the errors the publishers made."

John chuckled, but didn't say any more about the topic. "Mrs. Hudson's coming up soon, and I'm about to make dinner. Mac and cheese sound good?"

Sherlock grunted. John chuckled again, and Sherlock, not distracted at all by John's conversation, continued filling the blank pages with colour.

* * *

**Please review! It would really mean a lot. Really _really_. And reviews get you a purple shirt of sex! ^_^**

**No, really. They do. I don't lie. I am Vulcan. I am Spock.**

**+ I'm not really sure how often I'll update. Depends on the crap school throws at me.**

**++ I already have a bunch of childish things Sherlock can do swirling around my head, but an idea from you can still be a help. Just comment if you want to see something and I'll see what I can do. Hell, this could even end up as a bunch of one-shots of Sherlock doing childish things if I have too much. x)**


	2. Brothers and Bears

**School's cancelled today, yay! Something about a raging typhoon? I don't know, I can't really hear with all the racket the rain outside is making.**

**Gives me enough time to give you guys an update, though! The reviews I got last chapter motivated me a lot, and I thank you all for them. Honestly.**

**Anyway, this story would _probably_ make much more sense if you read my earlier story, Shuteye Shenanigans. It gives a background story-ish of Sherlock's behavior here, but don't worry, I wrote this little piece independently. You don't _have_ to read it, but I suggest you do. *shameless advertising***

**Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. My beta's not online and I'm impatient to post this. :(**

**Still don't own _Sherlock.  
_(c) BBC, Steven "Cold-Hearted Bastard" Moffat and Mark "I-Will-Murder-You-and-Laugh" Gatiss****_  
_**

* * *

**2.**

"Mrs. Hudson's gonna come and feed you at least once a day, Sherlock, but knowing her, she'd probably take it one step further and feed you once an _hour_, so there you go. I'm expecting not to see you all pale and sickly when I get back home. Besides, I already told her to use any means possible to get you to eat, so don't you _dare_ throw her out. I taped numbers to all the take-out places on the fridge if you ever feel like eating some, and _please_ remember to throw the cartons out. I don't want another mold garden," John said, bustling around the flat making last-minute arrangements.

"I don't want another mold garden," Sherlock mimicked silently, rolling his eyes at the ceiling from his customary position on the couch.

"No drugs, Sherlock. And no cigarettes, either. Cold turkey, we agreed on this," the doctor emphasized, flying about the kitchen.

He didn't need to look into the living room to know that Sherlock was huffing in annoyance.

John examined a handful of jars on the kitchen table. They were all ghastly yellow in color, and despite being tightly lidded, emanated a scent that smelled awfully like burnt rubber. He picked one up and stalked into the living room, "Is this another experiment?"

"Yes, now put it back," Sherlock snapped. "You're going to ruin it."

John sighed exasperatedly and put the jar back where he found it. He added in as an afterthought, "You've still got the teeth experiment in the refrigerator, too."

The consulting detective's eyes lit up excitedly at the long-forgotten experiment for a moment before it went back to its lost and angry expression as John came into the living room with his travelling bag. "You can't go," Sherlock said petulantly with an angry pout.

"Sherlock, we talked about this," John said in frustration, but he was uncomfortable leaving Sherlock alone to fend for himself, too. "Harry needs me. She's losing her grip. I'll only be gone for three days. You can text me any time, but none of that nonsense where you send me fifty texts per minute, alright?"

Sherlock pouted again, but conceded. "Three days."

"Three days," John promised.

* * *

It was nearing the end of the second day when trouble started brewing for Sherlock Holmes. Up until then, the consulting detective had simply glared at the ceiling, frolicked around his mind palace, conducted several experiments (the teeth were now happily melting in their little jar in the microwave, thank you for asking), stared at the people passing through Baker Street through the window and composed several new songs on his violin (much to Mrs. Hudson's dismay). The detective held back a flinch as another clap of thunder struck the rain-drenched air outside.

He really wished John were here to distract him – the doctor always did so every time a thunderstorm came to visit. Sherlock didn't have his friend to keep him company this time, however, his sister having stolen him from Sherlock because of her relapse, and Sherlock's pride was far too high for him to call brother dearest. So for now, the detective simply closed the curtains and turned off all the lights, willing the storm to go away, sitting forlornly on one end of the couch with his legs tucked in.

Sherlock absolutely _loathed_ thunder.

He checked his phone for the seventh time that hour, hoping that there was enough signal for him to text the doctor, but to no avail. His phone was as good as dead. The detective dropped it unceremoniously on the floor, frustrated.

A flash of lightning illuminated the night sky, and Sherlock was quick to cover his ears and shut his eyes. As expected, a clap of thunder, even louder than the last, reverberated around the room, this time coaxing a shudder from Sherlock's huddled form.

_John is supposed to be here with me_, Sherlock thought bitterly, adjusting his form to lie down on the couch. _He's supposed to be here distracting me from the thunder and helping me fall asleep and telling the damned thunder to go away._

His angry muses were interrupted by the sound of his phone chiming. Sherlock's eyes opened in confusion. He fumbled blindly for the phone, not in a mood to get up and get it properly, but perplexed as to how a text managed to worm its way to his phone without any signal.

Sherlock felt the cool metal of his phone and grabbed it, bringing the screen to his eyes. He felt his eyes roll in irritation as the source of his confusion made his presence known.

_Text Message from __**Mycroft Holmes**_

Of course something as petty as a _bloody, raging storm _couldn't stop his brother. Sherlock could imagine the number of backs Mycroft forcibly bent backwards just to get sufficient signal for his Blackberry. After all, the British Government never takes its break. The detective knew for a fact that the cake-eating bastard was currently at the Diogenes Club planning the elaborate "resignation" of Mongolia's prime minister.

Sherlock opened the text.

_Go downstairs._

_- Mycroft_

He stared at the text and huffed in annoyance. Sherlock ignored his text per usual as the thunderstorm raged on and on.

Another chime.

_You might like  
what you find._

_- Mycroft_

Sherlock's eyebrow lifted. _A bribe?_ he mused. _Mycroft never bribes. At least not with me, and not so nicely either. Interesting._

He decided to humor his brother. The detective stood up from the couch, making groaning sounds to express his displeasure and boredom. Sherlock also made sure to glare pointedly at Mycroft's hidden camera (embedded in the hanging Cluedo wall, in case you were wondering). He made his way downstairs, managing to stomp his way down with the grace and silence of a cat.

What he finds makes him love and hate the day Mycroft Holmes was born.

* * *

The next day, John finds himself leaning on the doorway of Sherlock's room, arms crossed. His stint with Harry had ended early, and yesterday night he had been anxious to get back, knowing that his flatmate was scared of thunderstorms. His efforts were in vain, however, as the doctor didn't even bother fighting back the urge to curve his mouth into a wide grin.

On his bed laid Sherlock, sleeping peacefully, his exotic face the perfect expression of calmness and serenity. The detective's curls were all over the place, and so were (not surprisingly, John had experience with this) his legs. His arms, however, were another story, for they were tightly wrapped around a big ball of brown fur, its eyes barely peeking out from the fuzz John thinks is his head. The teddy bear was as at least half of Sherlock's height, judging by the way it looked next to the consulting detective.

The rain outside had now died down to a slight drizzle. The doctor sent a quick text.

_Thank you._

_- JW_

Half a minute later, he received a response.

_It is of no problem,  
__John._

_- Mycroft_

He smiled at the text before continuing to watch his best friend sleep, an affectionate smile gracing his features.

* * *

**Love it? Hate it? Wanna lick it? Leave a review and let me know!**

**I wasn't lying the last time, you know. I really _did _give every reviewer a purple shirt of sex (well, the ones with accounts, anyway). So since this chapter _is_ kind of Mycroft-related, every reviewer gets Mycroft with his sexy umbrella? :)**

**+ I already have another chapter written out, actually. I'm just not sure if it's good enough for public display. I might have to trash it and write a whole different one, so yeah. Updates. Still unsure. And school. Still crappy.**

**++ I'm up for suggestions! Gimme gimme gimme.**


	3. Fights and Figures

**Heeeee. ~ I'm glad some of you enjoyed the thought of Sherlock hugging a teddy bear! Believe me, I had fun writing the damn thing.**

**Huzzah! I present to you the third installment. It's kind of meh for me so I'm sorry if it seems kind of forced, but I read and reread this chapter several times over and determined that it was good enough. Hopefully I'm right, yes?**

**_BBC Sherlock_**** is owned by the BBC (no shit), Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss; actual ****_Sherlock Holmes_**** (and the story this chapter is based upon) is owned by the amazing Sir Arthur Conan Doyle (who'd weep at how the little shit he regretted creating ended up becoming fiction's most beloved character and the Sherlock fandom's main heartbreaker, oops); finally, ****_The _****_Avengers _****is the property of Stan Lee, who is one adorable motherfucker.**

* * *

**3.**

"For God's _sake_, Sherlock, what the hell are we doing here?" John hissed as a toy helicopter whizzed above his head.

Sherlock and John were currently standing in the middle of a toy store, the former examining shelves housing several puppets and the latter blatantly ignoring the stares coming in from concerned parents.

"We need to speak to the owner," Sherlock replied, still distracted by the dust on the shelves. "He's one of the two Garridebs in England. I highly doubt James Winter would bother going to Leeds for the other one tonight – not when there's one here right in the heart of London ready for the taking. I'm certain this is where he'll be heading."

"Who's James Winter?" John asked, furrowing his brow.

Sherlock reached into his pocket, pulled out his magnifying glass and examined the shelves closely. "Do you remember the client that came to us a week ago about financial claims?"

"The one from Liverpool?"

"Accent suggests a person from Liverpool but his pronunciation and his usage of colloquialism suggests American. Restaurant coupons, driver's license and tickets from his wallet suggest Kansas," Sherlock corrected in one breath. He cocked his head and added as an afterthought, "Obviously."

"Obviously." John exasperatedly mouthed, rolling his eyes behind Sherlock's back.

Sherlock continued on, oblivious to John's disdain. "His grandfather, Hamilton Garrideb, left him fifteen million dollars, but only if he found two other Garridebs to split the money with him. The story in itself is already highly suspicious, what with all the unexplained discrepancies. I've already concluded that it is a fake, but what I don't understand is _why_ our client would go through so much trouble."

"I checked with Scotland Yard and went through their photographic files – " Sherlock rolled his eyes at the look on John's face. "They knew I was there, John."

The doctor glared at him.

"They would know I was there if they bothered to check the security cameras. It's not _my_ fault they're lazy, isn't it? I wasn't trying to hide myself."

John resignedly sighed – fighting with the detective was a futile effort. Sherlock took this as a sign for him to continue. "As I was saying, I looked through some files and found out that a convict recently escaped from Kansas, and unless Garrideb has an evil twin he failed to mention, they are one and the same. Subtract a little facial reconstruction on the chin and forehead plus copious amounts of hair dye and we have James Winter alias "Killer" Evans, wanted for the murder of three men," Sherlock sighed loudly and put the magnifying lens back in his coat pocket. "Let's solve this case quickly, John, it's turning out to be quite a _bore_. Let's hope we get a serial killer by the end of the week, shall we?"

"_Sherlock!_" John hissed. A mother and her child were staring at the pair of them fearfully. The father looked ready to strangle the pair of them with his umbrella. "Keep your voice down, people are staring!"

"Oh, let them be, John. They've got nothing else to do with their petty little lives," Sherlock dismissed.

The father gripped his umbrella tighter.

"_Sherlock!_"

"Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock and John turned to stare at the chipper blonde girl standing behind them. She couldn't have been older than seventeen. Her smile was wide as she regarded Sherlock and John.

"Yes?" Sherlock replied, straightening himself up and propping up his coat collar. Bastard.

"I'm afraid Mr. Garrideb isn't here right now. He's at Leeds."

The detective's ears perked up. "Leeds? What's he doing at Leeds?"

"I don't know, sir," the girl shook her head, ponytail swishing behind her. "He just said he needed to take care of financial business with a friend."

"When did he leave?"

"Well, uhm, let's see. He was still here when I signed in, but when I came back from lunch break he was already gone. He just left a note about what he was doing and that was it. You know what's funny, though, is that you're the second person to see him today. Another guy came in the same time I did and asked to speak to him. He left after about, I don't know, thirty minutes?" The girl said this all in one breath.

John noticed Sherlock's countenance change, almost as if a light bulb clicked in his head.

"Thank you for your help," the detective said.

"You're welcome, sir," the blonde replied happily, and proceeded to coo down at a baby in a stroller.

"We need to go back here after closing time," Sherlock whispered to John, turning to him.

"Sherlock, I've got a da –"

"There's a reason Winters fed Garrideb that story of the inheritance. He wanted him out of here for a reason. Winters is looking for something in this store, and we need to find out what it is, can't you see?"

Sherlock grabbed a bunch of action figurines from the shelf (quite eagerly, John noticed) and set them on a children's table. "Let's pretend that this is Nathan Garrideb – " he set a figurine down on the left side " – and that this is James Winters," Sherlock set down another figurine from across the guy. He sets a figurine directly in front of him before picking up the last two action figures. "This is us," Sherlock continued, setting two dolls side by side on the other side of the table.

If John had been told three days ago that he would end up holding action figures (_Avengers_, no less) with Sherlock Holmes, he would have died from the laughter.

"Okay, so James here – " he picks up the Captain America action figure " I've always hated him, anyway; he's too blue and his biceps are too big to be attached to his elbows – Winters presumably has something hidden in this place that could prolong his jail sentence. He comes to London to get rid of it, only to find out that _Garrideb _– " Sherlock picks up Thor " – is occupying the place, so how does he get him out of there? Trick him into thinking that there's an inheritance waiting for him. Winters tells him to travel to Leeds and fetch the other Garrideb – " John watches in amusement as Sherlock gets Thor to Hawkeye by making him walk " – and the time needed to get there is just enough time for Winters to find what he needs. So, tonight, _we _– " Sherlock picks up Iron Man and The Hulk " – are going to find the thing he's looking for before he finds it." He holds Iron Man and The Hulk with one hand and Captain America with the other and bangs them together as if they were fighting.

Were those _pew-pew-pews _John was hearing? Dear Lord.

John raised his hand. "Yeah, one question."

"What is it?"

"Exactly which one of us is Iron Man?" John manages to blurt out before he burst into laughter.

Sherlock casts his eyes downwards at the two figurines in his hand before calmly replying, "Me, of course."

"You?" John guffawed. "What makes _you_ Iron Man?"

"Because I, as you say, 'purposely' provoke you when I'm bored and turn you into this big – not in a literal sense, of course – angry monster," the detective explained, shaking The Hulk when he mentioned 'monster'.

That earned him a glare.

Sherlock grinned slyly at him. "Besides, something about Robert Downey, Jr. just _screams_ Sherlock Holmes."

* * *

John cursed loudly for the fifth time that hour as he tripped over a basketball.

"Have you found something useful yet, John, or are you just being noisy again?" Sherlock asked sarcastically. He was holding a flashlight and standing before the storage room door picking the lock.

"I'm trying, Sherlock, but there all these damn toys on the floor!" the doctor whispered loudly. He resisted the urge to throw a rubber duck at the consulting detective's head.

"Use your flashlight, then."

"_How can I when you took it?_"

"John, I – "

The pair of them stopped bickering long enough to hear the sound of the main doorknob jiggling incessantly. Sherlock instantly turned off the flashlight, John turning to battle mode beside him. The both of them hid behind one of the numerous shelves in the toy store.

By the time the intruder managed to pry open the lock, John and Sherlock had already managed to adjust their eyesight to the darkness. A flash of moonlight revealed him to be James Winters as he stalked to the shelf Sherlock had been examining earlier in the morning. The pair of them watched as Winters started tapping random patterns on the wood. After several clicks, John and Sherlock watched as the bookshelf moved to reveal a staircase leading downwards. Winters flicked on his flashlight and started walking down the stairs.

Clearly, the time for them to move had come. Sherlock and John moved out of their hiding place and stealthily walked across the room to the shelf, but not quietly enough, for Winters hurried up the stairs to check on the noise the pair of them made. His face split into a wide, menacing grin as Sherlock and John whipped out their revolvers.

"Hey, hey, hey! No need to be so rude. I just wanted to talk," Winters said, not bothering to fake an accent anymore. He raked his eyes appreciatively down Sherlock's form. "You know, it's not every day I get to meet the world's only consulting detective and his little sidekick," he said, emphasizing the last 'k' and winking at John. The detective rolled his eyes. _Americans can be so dramatic._ "I should've known you'd be here, knowing about your reputation. A lot of guys say that you're good, but they never mentioned how _rude_ you both were." Winters gave them a mock pout. "You're ruining my plans. I'm gonna need to fix that – "

Winters took out a pistol hidden in his sleeve and fired two shots in rapid succession. The first bullet whizzed past their ears, but the second one dug itself into John's thigh, eliciting a cry from the doctor. The last thing John saw before he fell down was Sherlock's arm crashing down on Winters' head, effectively knocking him unconscious with the butt of his gun. Sherlock's arms wrapped around John in mere seconds.

"John, are you alright? Are you hurt?" Sherlock demanded an answer, examining the bullet hole in his thigh.

"It's alright, Sh'lock," John slurred, applying pressure to his trousers. The pain was hard to ignore, but it was something he had gotten used to throughout his army years. "It's just a graze."

"Are you sure?" Sherlock asked. He whipped out a pocket-knife and gashed a hole in John's trousers. The graze was bleeding quite a bit as it was kind of deep, but it was, all in all, just a scratch. "Yes. Yes, it's just a graze. Thank God."

It was times like these when John was grateful to call Sherlock Holmes his best friend.

* * *

After the ordeal, Lestrade took to monitoring the both of them even more closely. The detective inspector had found them mere minutes after the whole shooting ordeal had happened, having heard reports of a shooting at Covent Garden. The first thing he saw was James Winters lying unceremoniously on a bed of flowers in front of a broken window. While indescribably irked that Sherlock and John had took it upon themselves to solve another case behind Scotland Yard's back _yet again_, his annoyance was alleviated by the secret Winters had been trying to keep.

Counterfeit printers, along with a millions worth of pounds, were found at the end of the staircase. Sherlock had noticed miniscule ink stains marking the shelf he was examining and deduced Winters' plan. Before being turned into a toy store, a professional counterfeiter had been using the place as a warehouse for counterfeit production before being killed by Winters himself. Winters, knowing that the copy machine could still be used, opted to try and restart the business before being stopped. He was brought back to jail on charges of murder.

As a joke, John bought the whole set of Avengers action figures for Sherlock. The detective had taken it with a sneer, but John could see how ecstatic he was at getting them. John, recovering from the bullet wound, stared at the consulting detective. Sherlock was currently playing with the action figures on the living room table complete with sound effects and grandiose movements.

John knew that he should be worried by _how_ the detective was playing with them (from what he could tell, Sherlock was recreating a crime scene with all of them), but he couldn't bring himself to care. Not when Sherlock's loyalty during the shooting was still fresh on his mind.

And if John noticed Captain America hanging limply from a tree outside the window, he didn't say anything.

* * *

**Okay, several notes:**

**a.) Look me in the eye and tell me you can't imagine Sherlock recreating crime scenes with action figures. I dare you.  
b.) Please don't think I hate Captain America! I just think of him as the guy Sherlock would despise the most, but that doesn't mean I hate him! I quite love him, in fact. My favorite next to Loki and Iron Man. !_!  
c.) Uh, let's see. I gave a purple shirt of sex for the first chapter and a sexy Mycroft-umbrella for the second. How about a nice dancing GIF of Martin Freeman for this chapter? :)  
d.) I'll throw in a YouTube video of Martin singing if you can guess the story this chapter's based upon, too. ^_^  
e.) Review, please! They motivate me a ****_lot_****.****  
f.) Damn, this is a really long author's note, isn't it?**


	4. Punches, Puddles and Promises

**TRAILER.**

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**_The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins. Just the two of us against the rest of the world!_**

**THRILL?! CHASE****?!** TWO OF US**?!** AGAINST _WORLD_**?! WHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAT?! *screams***

******I don't think you understand my _feels_ right now. I'm going crazy, I swear to _God_.**

******And my beta was online to read this for me, yayerz! Lovely thanks to _virginger _and her past/present-tense talk. If any of you readers notice inconsistency with the tenses in this chapter, it's because I really can't help it. It sounds really weird (to me, at least) if I use all past or all present tenses, and to be honest, I didn't even notice it. My _beta_ didn't even notice it. My beta's _sister_, however, did, and she hurt my feelings yes she did blame her for my heartache.  
**

******So, yeah. If I irk ridiculously grammatically-correct people with my tenses, I apologize again.**

******Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat are the owners of Sherlock and my broken heart.**

***unintelligible ugly sobbing and high-pitched whining***

* * *

**4.**

Sherlock couldn't think.

He couldn't even if he willed himself to.

The feel of expensive wool against his skin is foreign; his three-year stint tracking the Moriarty syndicate involved no luxurious clothing whatsoever.

Might as well, the viciously red blood of those he killed would have ruined it.

He fingers the phone on his hand almost nervously, rolling it over and over on his sweaty palm. Sherlock fights the urge to light up a cigarette and settles to look interested at the ground beneath him instead, weight shifting from foot to foot. He watches the fancy restaurant across him as it slowly starts to fill in with impeccably dressed diners wanting to go on dates with their significant others, or perhaps climb just a little bit more up the social ladder.

Sherlock could feel his heart at the back of his throat and the foul taste of bile on his tongue. The detective (_former_ detective?) fights back the urge to cry, tears stinging as they pool in his eyes. He laughs with an emotion no one would have been able to determine, hastily wiping tears with shaking fingers. All of this was so surreal, and Sherlock toyed with the idea of this being a dream. Several conflicting emotions made themselves known, all with varying degrees.

_Euphoria. Happiness. Affection. Regret. Guilt. Grief._

His figure was now even thinner than it had been three years ago, marked here and there with scars he couldn't even remember getting. Sherlock was hidden in the shadows, barely minding any of the happenings around him. His attention is piqued as a taxi stops at the entrance of the restaurant, heart leaping as the taxi lets out the familiar figure of a short, stocky, well-dressed man.

Sherlock's heart sinks low at the sight of cane carried in his right hand.

The man, oblivious to the disgraced detective's distress, pays the cabbie before limping his way into the restaurant. Heart beating erratically in his chest, Sherlock watches him being ushered to a table near the entrance. His eyes widen in suspense.

He fumbles with the suit Molly bought for him yet again (apparently she had been planning this return of his since the day the detective showed up in her flat lost and depressed) and takes a deep breath before slowly making his way across the street.

Sherlock then takes a quick step back as a car speeds its way down the road, shouting obscenities at him.

He hadn't noticed it coming.

Sherlock takes another deep breath to calm his nerves and attempts to cross the street again, this time looking at both sides. He strides gracefully to the entrance, barely acknowledging the maître d.

The waiter surprisingly lets him go without a fuss (Sherlock had a feeling Molly had something to do with this), leading Sherlock into the dining hall.

Sherlock freezes. His body seems to have betrayed him, arms and legs and body unable to move. He could feel himself start to choke, his lungs not functioning as well as they should be.

There he is – the man he left, the man who had been there with him every step of the way, the man whose loyalty never swayed.

_John._

Besides the moustache on his face, he looks quite the same, but Sherlock knows better. Sherlock took note of the increase of wrinkles adorning his face, the intermittent tremor present yet again in John's right hand as he steadily brings a glass to his mouth and the amount of grey hairs on his head. The cane lies limply by the edge of the table beside the doctor.

And Sherlock knows, without a doubt, that he is the cause for all of these changes.

Sherlock had a sudden urge to run – to _flee _from this place as far as he can, but the more human side of him orders him to remain still. Sherlock was scared and lost and helpless, yes, but he was, at the same time, hopeful and ecstatic and so damn _free _at the sight of his best friend.

He winces at the thought of being on the receiving end of one of John Watson's incredible punches, but mentally braces himself for it.

After all, it was only fair.

Sherlock _had_ ruined John.

* * *

Less than ten minutes later, Sherlock found himself at the back alley witnessing his former flatmate going out of his mind. The distinct rumble of thunder made itself known, but for the first time in three years, Sherlock ignored it.

John had lost the ability to speak the moment he laid eyes on Sherlock, eyes widening in denial and disbelief, bottom lip trembling slightly with words dying in his mouth. He was now pacing back and forth, hands raised up and fighting off an impending headache. The moon graced his features with pale light, making the doctor seem more tired and worn. Sherlock remained silent, unsure of what to say.

Finally, the doctor stopped pacing and looked Sherlock dead in the eye. "I mourned for you, Sherlock," he whispered hoarsely, shaking a finger accusingly at him.

"I know," Sherlock replied, equally as quiet. He heard his own voice crack as his insides burned bitterly. "I saw."

"I holed myself up in the flat for _weeks_, and the only times I came out were to visit _your_ grave. I wouldn't – I-I couldn't – I – " John stuttered trying to find the words to say, looking anywhere but his 'dead' flatmate.

"I know," Sherlock repeated monotonously, remembering how John looked as he watched from a distance – so defeated and so lost and unlike the John he knew. It had scared Sherlock. The detective swallowed heavily. "I was there."

"You _knew _what I was going through, Sherlock, and you didn't do a damn thing about it. You _saw_ what you put me through, and you didn't tell me _anything_ – Not a letter, not a message, not even a _note_! Hell, you even _saw_ what _Mrs. Hudson_ was going through. Did you know that six months after you died, I could still hear her crying herself to sleep? That she gave you flowers on your gravestone every damn week? Did you have an idea how much _crap_ you put her through?" John's voice started to rise in volume. He shot him a nasty look before his face became resigned. His voice quietened down, but Sherlock could still feel the raw anguish, and it sliced through to his very core. John added in another question. "Did you know how much crap you put _me_ through?"

Sherlock momentarily closes his eyes, willing for the right words to say. His eyes open and stare guiltily at the floor, the wall and the night sky - anywhere but John. After a moment, the detective speaks, and he was unable to keep it from wavering. "I had to do it, John. I never wanted to leave, but Moriarty threatened to kill you and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade if I didn't do it. I had no choice. All I knew was that if I were to be seen in your presence any longer than that, you would've been in danger. I couldn't let that happen," Sherlock said, now carrying a lilt of desperation in his baritone voice. "I had to leave and track down the entirety of the Moriarty syndicate. It wasn't my intention to hurt you, no. Not ever. Please."

John massaged his temples and shut his eyes at the end of Sherlock's speech. Sherlock could see John valiantly trying to comprehend what he had just been told, judging by the way his eyes stared into the distance. The doctor then looked at Sherlock with a reading the latter couldn't understand. The uncomfortable silence lasted several, long moments, punctuated by John's heavy breathing, Sherlock's shuffling and the occasional murmur of incoming thunder.

"Please, John," Sherlock pleaded, breaking the silence. He took a hesitant step forwards.

The doctor stepped backwards, bringing his hands up. Sherlock's countenance faltered, but he took a step back, defeated. John sighed tiredly, rubbing a hand over his face. "Moriarty made you do it?" John clarified.

"Yes," Sherlock answered.

"And you hunted the syndicate _down_?"

"Yes."

"Alone?"

"Mycroft helped."

John's nostrils seemed to flare at the mention of Mycroft, and Sherlock knew why. He didn't think the doctor would let go of the fact that Mycroft knew about Sherlock's faked death and not John. The ex-soldier gritted out his next words. "And you're alright?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded hesitantly. He offered John a small smile. "Quite."

"You're sure about that?" John raised both eyebrows.

"_Yes._"

The next thing Sherlock knew, a quick left arm was flying his way before a roaring pain erupted in his right cheek. The detective felt his lip split wide open and a bruise already starting to form. He fell heavily on the damp, concrete floor, head spiralling out of control.

He blearily looked up at John's blurry figure. Sherlock had been expecting how John would react. He obviously overlooked _when_ he would react, however, as he groggily took in his surroundings and cradled his sore cheek.

What he _didn't_ expect, however, was two arms gripping his biceps tightly and pulling him up from his less than graceful position on the ground. They then tightly wrapped themselves around Sherlock's shoulders, as if they were afraid Sherlock would disappear if they didn't hold tightly enough.

"Welcome back, you old sod," John said, his voice muffled by Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock started to feel wet warmth seeping through the fabric of his jacket. Unsure, he raised his hands to wrap themselves around John as well. Back when he was living with the ex-soldier, Sherlock didn't really think of a scent specific to John's being, but now as he hugged John within an inch of his life, he allowed himself to catch a whiff of his familiar scent and bask in his friend's acceptance.

* * *

After what happened in the alleyway, Sherlock and John went back inside the restaurant to have dinner. The first thing John did when they both arrived at their table (he was a doctor, after all) was fuss over Sherlock's state (_you can't just assassinate people and forget to eat, goddamit!_) to which Sherlock exasperatedly rolled his eyes. Although the mood at the table sometimes shifted to becoming downright uncomfortable and awkward at times, Sherlock and John still found themselves falling back into the same routine they had perfected three years ago. Over the meal (steak au poivre for John and a pesto ravioli John nearly shoved into Sherlock's mouth to get him to eat), they each shared what the other had missed during their years apart (if you could count 'sharing' as Sherlock producing a file seemingly out of nowhere and approving of John's choice of a girlfriend and oh, you didn't_ happen_ to donate my microscope, did you?).

It was a near three hours before they made their way outside, and so deep were they in conversation that they had failed to notice how hard it had apparently rained while they were having dinner. Naturally, all taxis that passed by were occupied, and Sherlock and John resigned themselves to walking to their respective places. Since they both lived in the same area (something about Sherlock wanting to see if John was alright by moving two blocks away from him), however, they continued to talk and walk casually through a park.

John groaned. "This suit's gonna be a pain to wash," he said after accidentally stepping on a puddle. "Mary's gonna – hey, wait a second! What happened to Mary?"

"Mary's at a Tesco's," Sherlock answered, perplexed. "Why do you ask?"

John didn't bother asking Sherlock how he knew that. "We were supposed to be on a date tonight."

"I told her it was cancelled," Sherlock stated nonchalantly, far too innocent for John's taste. The detective caught the look on his friend's face and rolled his eyes expressively. "Oh, come on, John. You just went on a date_ three weeks ago_; don't tell me you want to see her again so_ soon_."

How the hell did he kn- ? John tried to find words to say to the detective but found himself short. Barely five hours in and already Sherlock was being a nosy pain in the ass. He felt himself smile at Sherlock's obvious jealousy and shake his head at fond exasperation.

_Just like old times._

The doctor really wished he hadn't gone through so much trouble to dress up, though. He could feel muddy water clinging to the edge of his pants and the top of his socks getting wetter. John caught a flash of movement from the corner of his right eye before his right leg seemed to be stinging from the cold.

"_Sherlock?!_"

The man in question grinned slyly at the doctor before leaping up and jumping into another puddle, effectively drenching both of their legs.

Despite the ruined suit, John felt himself let out a confused laugh. "Sherlock, what the _hell_ are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing, John?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, splashing water from a gigantic puddle towards John. "This is what I used to do when Mycroft was getting annoying."

"And _I'm_ being annoying?" John asked incredulously, pointing to himself and his wet suit. He shook the water out of his leg to emphasize his point.

"You're being _boring_, John – stop talking about _boring_ things! You're babbling _on_ and _on_ about your wet suit and your interrupted dates and you _obviously_ don't see the bigger picture! I'm _back_ now, John, look at us! You and I can solve cases again and run around London chasing after serial murderers or- or- or professional thieves, and you're talking about your_ suit_?" Sherlock said with an excited gleam in his eye as he splashed on a particularly deep puddle, the force of the jump splashing water on John's thighs. He whipped around to face John with a determined look on his eye, walking towards him. "And I know for certain no one has occupied 221b since you left. We can always go back there, and to Scotland Yard as well – _Anderson_." And just like that, Sherlock's enthusiasm went away. John stifled a laugh, something that was proving to be a very hard task.

Sherlock's energetic gleam made its way back to his eyes, however. "Oh, forget him, he's an idiot," he dismissed with a wave of his hand. "Just think about it now, John! The thrill of the chase, the blood pumping through your veins – just the two of us against the rest of the world!" He punctuated each sentence with a jump. John noticed Sherlock's eyes become serious for a moment as he turned around to face him. "And I'm never leaving again." Sherlock moved closer to the doctor. "Not if I have a choice."

John realized how lonely it must've been for Sherlock to leave the only things he had, to have the weight of something dangerous and awful on your shoulders and to feel the bitter sensation of slowly being forgotten by people who think you're dead. The light in the detective's eyes seemed dimmer now, and John could see how broken he was regardless of how hard Sherlock tried to hide it. John smiled at him with forgiving eyes. "I know you won't."

Sherlock grinned like a maniac yet again and offered John a pinky. The doctor looked incredulously at Sherlock's finger before shooting a look of disbelief down the owner's way. He scoffed, "You're not serious?"

The detective tilted his head slightly in impatience, pinky moving with his head. "For God's sakes, John, just take it."

The doctor slowly wraps his pinky around Sherlock's and holds on tight. Sherlock's finger twitches before curling around impossibly tighter.

"Just the two of us."

* * *

**Lookie there, _two_ childish things Sherlock did in one chapter. Wahey ~ !**

**I'm definitely not used to writing drama or angst, so I apologize for the load of crap in the beginning. Take that as a sign to call 911, I guess? I tried my best though, so I hope that was good enough for you guys. Fingers crossed. :)**

**The response I got last chapter was amazing! Heeeee. It made me feel so relieved, thank you.**

**And I apologize if Sherlock's OOC this chapter. I just think this is something he'd do, knowing that he'd been gone from London for three years. Hell, _I'd_ do it just for the sake of _being_ in London. God, that city's amazing. Someone take me back there, please? :c**

**Since I'm feeling extra happy today, everyone who reviews gets a lovely gif of _Cumberneck, Cumberlips and Cumberbooty_! ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ****ASS ********ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS ****************ASS**.

***continues unintelligible ugly sobbing and high-pitched whining***


	5. Victims and Vendors

**Not gonna lie, this was a _bitch_ to write at first. I suppose this is what I get for writing things as I go along, isn't it? x)**

**Oh, well. I had fun towards the end.**

**I fucking _hate_ mental blocks, so ****I'm sorry if parts of it seems forced and a tad rushed. I have this weird sort of fear that if I don't finish a story as soon as I can, I'm gonna lose all my inspiration and just leave it hanging. I don't want to end up like one of those authors who leave their stories hanging and abandoned. *coughcough* LANAEA PLEASE COME BACK AND FINISH 'HOME' :( *coughcough***

**But then again, I don't want to end up like one of those authors that force themselves to write, either. I'd like to think my fics have some heart into them, so I went over and over this chapter to see if it was decent enough to read. ****I hope you guys enjoy this latest installment, and rest assured that I, _at least_, have a plot skeleton for the last chapter of this fic. :)**

**Neither beta'd (cause I got impatient) nor Brit-picked.**

**And oh, pardon my crap deduction skills down below. I'd make a horrible BBC Sherlock writer, sob.**

**I don't own BBC Sherlock, by the way. Or maybe I _do_, I don't know. I could be Mark Gatiss for all you know, ooooooooo.**

* * *

**5.**

John could literally see a pulse beating in Sherlock's head. His eye was twitching menacingly, and every now and then, his electric-blue pupils would flicker over to John's pocket where he knew he kept his revolver.

The source of his irritation was currently blabbing to Lestrade about the merits of an 'actual investigation' and that 'guessing where the victim lived by the color of her eyes' was_ far_ from Scotland Yard protocol. Lestrade looked like he wanted nothing more than to go home (maybe punch a few particular people on the way for disturbing his sleep on what was _supposed_ to be his day off) and enjoy the rest of it in peace. Anderson took no notice, however, scowling at the consulting detective currently crouching over the victim. Sherlock gave him his ugliest look back.

John took a deep breath. Sherlock was moody, that was for sure, and whenever Sherlock was moody, rest assured that his flatmate would be moody as well (John wasn't _now_, but he was certainly on his way). The doctor tried his best to focus his attention elsewhere but failed; the tension around the crime scene was ridiculously getting thicker by the minute.

Which was a shame, really, considering where they were.

John tried to focus on the smell of the fresh air, the ticklish rustling of blades of grass beneath his feet and the soothing sound of the lake. Hyde Park looked gorgeous this time of the morning, and it felt even better now that it was the weekend. Children shrieked and laughed with their families, and several bicycles were leisurely moving around. Couples were walking around as well, some of them giving notice to the ducks and geese waddling by the lake.

The doctor considered the idea of having Mrs. Hudson's 70th birthday celebration here.

His musing was cut off by the sound of Sherlock's irritated baritone voice. "If you're going to waste your time _pretending_ to be a good investigator, Anderson, the least you can do is try to act like you know what you're doing!"

"I didn't even do anything!" Anderson retorted, staring indignantly at the consulting detective.

"Boys," Lestrade cut off with a tired expression, feeling a migraine starting to form. He looked between Anderson and Sherlock desperately. "Please."

Sherlock puffed a sigh of disapproval at Anderson before reverting his attention back to the corpse. "As I was _saying_, the victim is a music teacher, alcoholic, recently divorced and fighting custody for her two sons. Born in London but raised in Hetfordshire, and judging by the resumes in her bag, she was looking at a job opportunity. She didn't get it, obviously," the detective muttered, eyeing the multiple stab wounds along her spine. Anderson scrunched his nose distastefully at his dark humor. Sherlock nonchalantly started texting on his phone while simultaneously turning to Lestrade. After a while, a chime pinged from the detective inspector's phone. "I just sent you the details. You'll find the ex-husband's information and that of his brother's; you're going to need it – don't ask me how I know this, Anderson," Sherlock demanded, just as Anderson was opening his mouth to say something. "You're too much of an imbecile to understand."

Anderson spluttered.

Sherlock could've cared less. He took John by the crook of his arm and led him away from the crime scene. Onlookers stared at them as they passed, having gathered around the edges to see what was going on. Murmurs and whispers followed them as they went, but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes.

"Don't they have anything better to do?" Sherlock asked with a hint of annoyance. He let out a loud groan. "Let's just go home, John. What a pathetic waste of time this was – didn't help that Anderson was there as well." Sherlock pouted, and John Watson be damned if that wasn't the cutest thing he'd seen that day (not that he'd ever tell anyone, even to himself, as his masculinity was already bordering on 'endangered' whenever it came to the consulting detective). The detective sighed ostentatiously. "There wasn't even that much blood."

John sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose in frustration. He knew how bored Sherlock had been cooped around the house lately, having had no cases for a little over two weeks. There were only so many experiments the detective could do (note: see experiments John _allowed_ Sherlock to do), and Mycroft had stolen Sherlock's violin in an uncharacteristically un-Mycroft fit of rage after the latter had stolen a top-secret file from the M15 (John was still trying to coax Sherlock into giving it back). The doctor had been trying his best to accommodate to the detective's needs, but he was running out of options.

John had been thinking long and hard for quite a while about the current state of events that he hadn't noticed Sherlock letting go of his arm and staying behind. When the doctor finally _did_ notice after about thirty feet of aimless walking, however, he turned around confusedly to figure out where his flatmate had gone off to. He didn't have to look long. Sherlock simply stood at the side of the road staring into space, his mysterious figure oddly incongruous yet fitting against the background of the Serpentine. The wind chose that moment to make its presence known, blowing elegantly at Sherlock's curls and coat, making Sherlock look even more graceful than he usually was.

"Sherlock?" John called out, walking back to his friend. The wind was doing no wonders for him, messing his hair.

The detective didn't reply.

The doctor's attention piqued. Sherlock had done this before, actually: looking pointedly at someone before suddenly grabbing John and whisking him off in pursuit of the man.

To Brixton. On _foot_.

It was only after they had finished the chase that John had found out that the man they were pursuing was, in fact, a serial rapist, and that their timely arrival prevented another woman from suffering a similar fate to that of his previous victims.

John hurried closer to him, thinking that it was another one of these cases. "Sherlock? What is it?" The closer he got to the detective, the more aware he was of the look on the detective's face. It wasn't that Sherlock was _longing_, per se, but it certainly looked as if he wanted something really badly.

The doctor looked at the direction of where his friend was staring at and felt his mouth curving into a smile. He turned back to the detective with an affectionate grin.

"Want something, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's reverie was broken off at the question. To John's amusement, it seemed as if Sherlock hadn't realized he was there, having been too focused on the sight of a vendor and his multitude of colorful friends.

John punched him lightly on the arm, teasing him fondly. "You want a balloon, Sherlock?"

"No," he scoffed defiantly and instantly. He stood up a little straighter and stuck his nose in the air. "Balloons are for _children_,"he added condescendingly.

"They don't _have_ to be only for children, though," John prodded on, noticing how Sherlock's eyes kept flicking between the balloon stand, where it was being watched over by an old man, and the balloons in varying shades of red, blue, yellow and other bright colors. John gestured to the stand with a nod of his head. "Come on, I'll even pay."

Sherlock's eyes widened as he stared at the doctor. His carefully-concealed excitement would have fooled anyone, but John Watson knew his friend better than that. The detective blinked several times at John, then straightened up even further, trying to gain back a sense of dignity. "Only if you want to."

"You can't fool me, you old sod," John chuckled, this time pulling _him_ by the crook of his arm. The detective followed with a feigned nonchalance, the spring on his steps not going unnoticed by John.

"Good morning!" the vendor greeted warmly as they approached. He was an old man with a kind smile. His head, though balding, was still adorned with a good amount of hair, its shock-white hue providing an appealing contrast to his worn tweed suit. His green eyes regarded them thoughtfully. "A balloon for your children?"

"What? No, no," John denied, eyes widening. Sherlock watched with mild amusement as John tried to regain his sense of control (his masculinity was now verging on 'extinct', if you'd like to know). "No, no, no. We're just looking to buy some balloons. For – " John cleared his throat embarrassedly and tried to look at him as seriously as possible. "For ourselves. More for him, actually," John said, giving the vendor a slight shake of his head to indicate his flatmate.

Sherlock sent John an annoyed glare at the move.

The old man's eyes twinkled in response. "Nothing to be embarrassed about, lads. Balloons are for everyone!" he said with a childlike flourish, gesturing toward the balloons. "How many would you like?"

John looked at Sherlock expectedly. The detective turned around, beckoning for John to do the same. Sherlock answered John's inquiring gaze softly, looking at his shuffling shoes. "I'd like ten, John."

"Ten?" John asked, hovering between fond resignation and absurd amusement. "Ten balloons?"

"One of each color." Sherlock nodded minutely, looking at the ground interestedly. He then shuffled his feet and looked upwards, as if looking at the sky would provide him a good enough excuse for wanting ten balloons. "It's for an experiment."

"Right." John rolled his eyes at him exasperatedly and turned back to the old man with a sigh. _Good lord, the things he would do for Sherlock Holmes…_

* * *

Five minutes later, the pair of them were walking down Oxford Street. Due to the sheer size of their companions, they could not hail a cab, and it would have been a nuisance for them to be bringing the balloons on the heavily-crowded Tube.

Sherlock, the bastard, was still looking quite enigmatic and dignified despite the colorful balls of air floating happily around him. It was quite amusing to see the normally stoic consulting detective with a bunch of balloons, especially considering that the balloon strings were tied securely around Sherlock's wrist, something John was thankful he did before they had left Hyde Park. At that particular moment, the doctor felt like he was taking care of a little child.

Little? No. Child? Yes. John indulged himself with the idea of buying Sherlock a helicopter cap the next time they went out shopping.

He also tried not to think of how odd they must have looked as they walked casually down the street – after all, it wasn't everyday people got to see two grown (_not gay!_) men with a bunch of balloons. About a dozen children have already stopped walking to stare at the both of them as they passed, eyes and mouths wide open. Sherlock had possessively brought the balloons closer to himself every time a child had done so, staring back at them.

John resisted the urge to bring a hand up to his face in exasperation.

Sherlock had now taken to rubbing a purple balloon vigorously against the side of his head, watching as his curls became attracted to it with fascination. John merely shook his head, smiling slightly. Though he was slightly uncomfortable at the extra attention the both of them were receiving, the balloons were a small price to pay for Sherlock's benefit, no matter how hard the detective tried to deny his fondness for them.

They reached Baker Street without any further disturbances. After a little commotion with the balloons and their inability to get through the door (For God's _sake_, Sherlock, let them in _one by one_, not all at once!), Sherlock and John made their way inside. The former wasted no time by untying the balloons from his wrist and heading for the coffee table.

The doctor, meanwhile, busied himself with preparing lunch in the kitchen as Sherlock moved about the living room. John moved towards the fridge and opened it, looking for the onions. He was confused when he couldn't find them. "Sherlock?" he called out, furrowing his eyebrows and pursing his lips. "Do you know where the onions are?"

"Behind the feet, John," Sherlock replied impatiently.

His voice sounded muffled, and from his position in the kitchen, John could hear the sound of metal rubbing against each other. He didn't bother asking any more, however, and simply pushed the disembodied feet aside, got six onions from the fridge and continued to make lunch.

It remained that way for several minutes: John was diligently preparing cream of onion soup for the both of them, and Sherlock was... doing God knows what.

As the doctor started chopping potatoes, he felt a slight bump on his shoulder and was shocked to find a round, yellow balloon staring back at him. It wasn't flying towards the ceiling, but it wasn't tied to the floor either – the thing was simply floating level to John's head. John looked down the string and figured out why he heard the sound of metal clanging against each other a little while back.

John dropped the knife by the slicing board and grabbed the string, walking to the living room where Sherlock was sitting on his usual chair surrounded by the remaining nine balloons. They, too, were floating around him like a weird solar system, some higher and some lower than the rest. John stopped and stared at the detective, holding the balloon high up so the end of the string was eye-level. "Did you just tie two-pence coins to the balloons?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and regarded the doctor with his hands steepled. "You've got eyes, John. You tell me."

John found himself torn between amusement and resignation for the second time that day. A small chuckle escaped his lips, and the doctor handed Sherlock his yellow balloon back (not really, the yellow balloon seemed to have a life of its own and simply floated to where Sherlock sat). John headed back to the kitchen, shaking his head along the way.

_Experiment, my ass_, John thought with an inward grin as he continued to make lunch.

* * *

**THE PERSONAL BLOG OF  
****DR. JOHN H. WATSON****  
**

**Mrs. Hudson's 70th Birthday**

Happy birthday, Mrs. Hudson! Still looking young  
as ever. Sherlock and I hope you enjoyed our  
little impromptu picnic at the park today.

**2 comments**

* * *

Oh, you boys! Of course I did. It was very sweet  
of you. :) (That is a happy face, if you didn't know)

**Mrs Hudson** 7 September 16:21

* * *

And tell Sherlock I appreciate the balloons!

**Mrs Hudson** 7 September 16:24

* * *

**There we go! Haha. The bit about tying coins to the end of a balloon actually works (you have to make sure that the coin isn't too heavy or too light, though). I do it every time I get myself a balloon (which is basically every time I attend a children's birthday party). They basically just float around, and if you draw a face on them, they can be very fine replacement friends as well!**

**Disregard that last bit, oops.**

**And can I just say how much I _loved_ the reviews I got for the last chapter? God, I love you guys so much. You're the reason I try so hard to give you the best chapters I can. Thank you. Bless you. :')**

**Dear mervoparkite: Please allow private messaging so I can love you properly for your reviews. Thank you. I owe you like, 8 GIFs or something? And you don't have to if you don't wanna, just know I appreciate the effort you make to give me your feedback yes yes yes yes. *heart*  
**

**Every reviewer gets a GIF of our very own Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade this time! It's his division (and he won't punch you along the way, promise)! :)**


	6. Hiding at Harrods

**WARNING: Ridiculously long author's note up ahead! You can go ahead and skip to the story.**

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**Cae: I'm afraid you misunderstood that part of the story. When John said 'Sherlock had done this before', he meant looking off into the distance. I wasn't trying to imply that Sherlock and John were chasing a rapist and ended up buying a bunch of balloons halfway through. x)**

**Guest: Your review made my heart _swell_, thank you so much! I'm glad my little balloon trick cheered you up, and I'm ecstatic that I helped a little bit with your depression. Hang in there, okay? It'll get better. :)  
And yes, I went through John's blog. I tend to do a bit of research so the story would make sense and in-character! ^_^**

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**Sorry it took a week for this chapter to get posted, school's been ridiculously hectic! And I've been pretty sad as well because of homesickness and the stress of school, so there's that as well. Ho hum.**

**This chapter has got to be the _hardest _chapter I've written so far. I had the basic gist of what I wanted to happen, but nothing seemed to want to come out. There were quite a lot of times when I wanted to just throw this and burn it all in hell, but I couldn't do it. There were several ideas that had potential to replace this, but this one pleased the most to me for some reason, so I stuck with it. I don't know why; I just did. I just hope I don't regret this later on. x)**

**And I'm not exactly sure what the inside of Harrods looks like, since I didn't get a chance to go there during my London trip. The only reference I have is an online map of the mall (didn't make much sense to me), one video of the food hall on YouTube (it looks _amazing_, by the way) and that one Christmas episode of Mr. Bean where he flies the Baby Jesus on a toy helicopter (I'm laughing just thinking about it, oh my god). The places I depicted here most likely don't look like the actual stores, and I'm not even sure if there even _is _a play area. It's definitely set in Harrods, though.**

**This chapter mentions something about party masks several times, and I'm aware that some of you would probably not know the kind of masks I'm talking about, so before you start reading this chapter, please go to Google Images and search for this: 'prince william party mask'. It's fucking hilarious. I've got one of them at home.**

**Anyway, please please _please _enjoy the last installment! The amount of blood I had to sweat to get this chapter out was astounding. x)**

**Neither beta'd nor Brit-picked. I still don't own Sherlock!**

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+1

**Tuesday, 1:38 PM | Third Floor, Play Area**

John Hamish Watson was many, many things: for one thing, he was a soldier, whether it be for the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers fighting for the Queen and Country, or as Sherlock Holmes' famed companion, solving cases here and there for the betterment of London. John was also a doctor, willing to take time to help those in need whether they wanted it or not. His recent affiliation to one Mary Morstan had made him quite a happy boyfriend, as well, and all of his friends agree that the doctor was a good and honorable friend.

Despite incriminating rumors, the army doctor was quite a _ladies_ (_ladies_, Daily Mail, _ladies!_) man. After all, he wasn't called John "Three Continents" Watson for nothing. That alone should have convinced people that _no, he most definitely_ _wasn't gay, _and that he and Sherlock were merely two perfectly abnormal (the Daily Mail got _that_ right, at least) blokes sharing the same flat.

All in all, John Watson was a man never to be messed with _ever_, as he is a fine embodiment of prime alpha masculinity.

So if one were to hear the noise that escaped the ex-soldier's mouth as he and Sherlock Holmes rounded a corner, John Hamish Watson would be the first one to tell you that it most definitely was _not_ a giggle.

It was a laugh that sounded _awfully_ like a giggle. Big difference there.

"John, be quiet!" Sherlock hissed, beckoning for the doctor to quicken his pace. Parents nearby were starting to get wary. Children of all sizes had been staring at the detective interestedly as he held the netted door open for John. When the ex-soldier realized what Sherlock's plan was, he stopped to stare incredulously at Sherlock, as well.

"A ball pit, Sherlock?" he breathed, torn between amusement and disbelief. "Do you really think a _ball pit_'s gonna hold them off long enough?"

"Long enough for us to make a plan, John. Now get in!" Sherlock hissed. The doctor barely got one foot in the ball pit before Sherlock impatiently pushed him the rest of the way through. The doctor landed gracelessly on the colorful balls as Sherlock smoothly plopped down beside him. The rest of the children in the ball pit stared confusedly at the two grown men swimming in their ball pit.

John righted himself up and saw Sherlock crouching down so only the top of his curls were seen over the balls. The detective hastily jerked John downwards so the doctor could mimic his position, looking suspiciously around him. John merely sighed.

John had been acquainted with the Holmes brothers for a little over two years now, yet he still didn't quite comprehend how Sherlock and Mycroft could act the way they acted normally one moment and incredibly different the next. Despite their outward appearances, the Holmes brothers really _were_ a bit immature. John recalled the recent events that had taken place back at their flat, wondering how it had all gotten out of hand. Then again, the doctor supposed he should have expected nothing less from the notorious Holmes brothers.

After Sherlock had stolen a classified file from the M15 in a fit of boredom, Mycroft uncharacteristically retaliated by stealing Sherlock's Belstaff coat. This, in turn, led to a series of events that John didn't even think were possible. By the time a week had passed after their little war had started, Sherlock had stolen Mycroft's umbrella, all of his ties, his contact lenses, most of his socks, and Anthea (John _swears_ he had nothing to do this, the doctor had been quite surprised to suddenly find the secretary tied up in their living room, and he was now in the process of writing his testimony in case Anthea decided to sue). Mycroft, on the other hand, had stolen Sherlock's skull, his scarf, his Earl Grey-cellulite experiment (John was mightily impressed that Mycroft had even managed to _stand_ the putrid smell it emitted) and his violin. Before leaving the flat, John had explicitly told Mrs. Hudson to be extra careful in case Mycroft attempted to steal _her_.

Now normally, John would have ignored the both of them and went on with his business, but when Mycroft decided to drag _him_ in by stealing the engagement ring he was planning to propose to Mary with, well – that was just wrong. John wasn't even _part_ of the damn game and was slightly annoyed at Mycroft's audacity. Sherlock, of course, took full advantage of this and told his normally too-mature-for-you flatmate about the elaborate plan he had hatching up, and John could only do nothing but go with the flow.

The plan was simple, really: steal something of Mycroft's (again). What made this plan extra cunning, however, was that this time, they were going to steal something of great magnitude; something, when placed on the wrong hands, would prove detrimental to the world as everyone knew it, and something that Sherlock knew, without a doubt, Mycroft would be absolutely _desperate_ to get back.

Mycroft's personal file.

John didn't know (and quite honestly, didn't even _want_ to know) how the consulting detective had managed to steal the classified file without so much as raising an alarm, but the detective had done it. Of course, they would've been foolish to assume that the British Government would let it go unnoticed – barely five minutes had passed before Mycroft had noticed something was wrong. Add in a little chase around London, several agents of Mycroft's and a spontaneous visit to one of the biggest shopping malls in the country, and you get Sherlock and John's current situation –

Playing a highly dangerous and highly _illegal _game of hide-and-seek with the British Government himself. At _Harrods_.

The whole thing was immaturity at its best, and John Hamish Watson was smack-dab at the middle of it.

They'd have to tread extra carefully at the posh shopping center; John had already been banned from thirty-seven shops (all of them Sherlock's fault), and the doctor didn't exactly _feel_ like adding another feather to his cap, if you were so kind.

He often wondered why he continued to bring his flatmate with him every time he went on his monthly grocery shopping - he knew full well just how much of a nuisance Sherlock Holmes could be.

As a matter of fact, the doctor should have been annoyed that he had even been coerced into playing this petty little game the Holmes brothers had concocted up, and he should have been downright _frustrated_ at Sherlock for putting them in their current situation. John, however, found that he didn't particularly care at that moment– not when he was having the most fun he's had in ages.

He'd never admit that to the consulting detective, though.

John hugged Mycroft's personal file closer to him as Sherlock spoke urgently. John found that it was quite hard to take the detective seriously with colorful balls framing his sharp face and stifled a grin. "All exits are blocked, John, and Mycroft's probably taken over the security tapes by now," Sherlock informed. The detective knew they were trapped, and John knew it as well.

"Do we know anything else?" the doctor queried, trying to come up with a plan.

"One of them's got a raging alcohol problem, and another one is about to be confronted by a _very, very angry_ ex-girlfriend."

John rolled his eyes exasperatedly. "Anything about the _game_, Sherlock."

"No. No, I haven't, but that's what makes it fun, isn't it?" Sherlock said, regarding John with a manic glint in his eye at the question. He whispered to John with a hint of excitement, "The best we can do now is give them the chase of their life; the game, John, is afoot!"

Before John could reply, however, a voice interrupted their conversation.

"FREEZE!"

Both Sherlock's and John's heads whipped around at the sound of the order. Standing in the doorway was one of Mycroft's agents, one hand perched authoritatively on a hip. The other hand was busy punching a number on his phone.

Out of the corner of his eye, John saw Sherlock moving. Horrified, John watched as a handful of balls Sherlock had quickly grabbed made hard contact with the agent's face. The next thing the doctor knew, his flatmate tugged at the agent's tie, nearly choking him and causing the agent to land amongst the balls, surprised as John was. The doctor accidentally let out a loud guffaw, covering his mouth to try and silence it. Sherlock was shouting at John. "Run, John, hurry!"

Sherlock and John quickly left the agent in the ball pit and absconded away.

* * *

**Tuesday, 1:44 PM | Third Floor, Fendi Casa**

Sherlock and John's second encounter with one of Mycroft's men had been at the furniture area of the mall.

They had both taken it upon themselves to spurn the agent on by separating and making their presence known in intervals, therefore making the guy chase them around the shop. As the agent turned around in circles around the various pieces of furniture, Sherlock and John stealthily left the shop together, chuckling quietly all the while.

* * *

**Tuesday, 1:52 PM | Third Floor, Toy Kingdom**

As Sherlock and John passed several stores on their way to... on their way, the detective noticed something in the corner of Toy Kingdom. Sherlock stopped abruptly, the law of inertia seeming not to bother him, and made his way inside, interested. John, on the other hand, nearly crashed into another customer and her daughter as he tried to figure it out where his flatmate suddenly disappeared off to.

The doctor turned around and saw Sherlock inside a shop, making his way over to the aforementioned corner. John groaned audibly when he saw what his friend was planning to do. He briskly walked into the shop and grabbed Sherlock's arm, pulling him away from the party masks.

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**Tuesday, 1:56 PM | Second Floor, Kitchenware**

One floor down and four minutes later, Sherlock was still protesting.

"Those masks could have helped us, John!"

"_Yeah_, right, because it's every day we get to see Princes William and Harry in our outfits running around Harrods, Sherlock. What a _perfect_ disguise," John said, pulling the reluctant detective away from the security cameras. Sherlock, too busy grumbling, did not notice the amused smile blooming on his flatmate's face.

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**Tuesday, 2:15 PM | Ground Floor, Perfumery**

As he and Sherlock rounded a corner, they came face to face with one of Mycroft's men. Instead of making them stop (like any normal person whose name wasn't Sherlock Holmes would do), the detective made a surprised John run faster and bumped into the agent, sending him crashing unceremoniously to the floor with their combined force.

"Sherlock, what the hell - ?" John said, looking back behind him to ascertain the agent was alright. His words were cut off, however, as Sherlock bumped into another man yet again. "Oh, _for God's sake_, Sherlock. That wasn't even an agent!"

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**Tuesday, 2:31 PM | Lower Ground, Men's International Gallery**

"Sherlock, in here!" John whispered loudly, gesturing towards the circular rack of suits beside him. It was tall enough to accommodate the both of them, and the suits occupying it would provide suitable cover. Sherlock slid in with no hesitation, and John followed soon after.

Sherlock had to crouch down uncomfortably to keep his head from view. The duo were currently wrestling and bumping into each other trying to find a comfortable position.

"Get your elbow off my face, John!"

"Your foot's between my knees, Sherlock. What the hell are you trying to do?"

"Shouldn't it be obvious, John?"

It wasn't obvious.

After a few seconds of scrambling, John started laughing, barely dodging a headbutt. His sudden burst of laughter caused him to accidentally smack Sherlock in the face with Mycroft's file, making Sherlock snarl. He and Sherlock must have looked absolutely ridiculous, still rearranging their limbs like a mutant octopus. John voiced his thoughts. "We look like a bunch of silly bastards, Sherlock. We _really_ do. I wouldn't be surprised if Mycroft found us like this."

"We're not getting caught yet, John," Sherlock whispered back haughtily, readjusting his position and nearly kicking John's groin in the process. John barely managed to suppress a wince at the near hit. The detective ignored it and continued to wriggle. "I must admit, though, that I hadn't been expecting Mycroft to join in on the search. He's far too lazy for these kinds of things - it's a wonder he still moves."

The doctor rolled his eyes. "_Of course_ he'd join the search, Sherlock. We stole his _personal file_," John informed the detective helpfully. Sherlock preened at the reminder, almost purring at the idea of having a one-up over his brother. John, of course, took notice of this, but he merely sighed in exasperation.

"Yes. We certainly did," Sherlock said with the air of a cat that caught the canary, satisfied grin plastered on his face.

The doctor didn't bother replying, rolling his eyes again. He then looked around the small enclosure, peering now and then outside. "In case we _do_ get caught, Sherlock, any bright ideas on what we should do? I imagine we'll be caught soon if we don't do something, and I don't plan on going to jail. Again."

"We'll figure that out when they get here, John," Sherlock replied absentmindedly.

Suddenly, the ex-soldier's military hearing skills perked up, hearing an ominous shuffle from outside. "Sherlock, wait! Be quiet," John whispered, effectively shushing the consulting detective. He risked a glance outside, creating a small sliver between the suits. Through the small space, he could make out a familiar figure looking through several circular racks. It'd only be a matter of time before he came to_ their_ rack and discovered them.

John turned back to look at Sherlock, silently mouthing, "_Mycroft._"

His flatmate straightened up a bit. "Is he alone?" Sherlock whispered back.

John looked out again before replying. "None that I can see. Your brother must be by himself."

Sherlock looked out of his own side and confirmed John's theory. "Yes. Yes, he is." He awkwardly inched closer to John and got a peek at Mycroft, as well, studying his brother. The results must have been good, for Sherlock was contented as he looked down at John. "No hidden microphones, either. We still have a chance at escape, John," he said confidently.

Before John could realize what his flatmate was doing, Sherlock was already making his way out of the circular rack, accidentally stepping on John's foot and hitting his face with the doctor's own hand (John suspects that the latter wasn't entirely an accident). This was all done with a bit of a clatter, considering how tiny the rack was, and by the time John was outside as well, the British Government was both regarding them with a slightly irritated expression that was mainly focused on his younger sibling.

"Don't be foolish, dear brother," Mycroft said condescendingly, sticking his nose slightly higher in the air. He then brought his head back down to look at them threateningly. John could now see exactly why Mycroft Holmes was considered the "Ice Man". His voice was still calm and eerie as he spoke softly to Sherlock. "Give it back, Sherlock. _Now._"

When the detective didn't reply, Mycroft extended a hand towards John, eyes focused directly on the file on John's hand. "John."

"Don't do it, John," Sherlock ordered boredly. John could see Mycroft's calm demeanor twitch slightly, and the beginnings of a grimace were starting to make themselves known on his face. John's flatmate merely smiled as his brother's countenance changed, his grin taunting the British Government. "What are you going to do about it, Mycroft? Run after us? You haven't run a mile in your life."

This time Mycroft really was grimacing. It only lasted for a couple of seconds, however, before transforming to that of resignation, exasperation and distaste. What Sherlock had said seemed to have sucked out the life out of Mycroft. The British Government let out a quiet sigh and regarded them thoughtfully. "Yes, I suppose you're right," he said. Mycroft took out a pocket-watch from the inside of his coat, looking at it boredly. When he looked up again, Mycroft gave Sherlock a tight smile. "But don't expect to be running much longer, brother," he said almost menacingly, waving out a hand to dismiss both of them.

Sherlock took the cue and turned to leave briskly, holding a very confused John by the bicep. The latter was still trying to comprehend what had just happened in the tiny exchange, eyes flicking back to the British Government in bewilderment. John Watson was literally lost, and he looked at Sherlock with an incredulous look on his face. "Did - did your brother just _let us go_? Just like that?"

"We just walked away from him mere seconds ago, John. Surely you couldn't have forgotten already?" Sherlock deadpanned, now moving at a light jog.

John hurried to catch up with him. "That's not what I meant, Sherlock, and you know it!" John said, unsure of whether or not he should laugh at their sheer dumb luck. "Why'd Mycroft let us go? Why didn't he chase us?"

"I told you, John," Sherlock said, giving the doctor a quirk of his lip. "Mycroft's too lazy for anything that involves moving."

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**Tuesday, 2:49 PM | Lower Ground, Men's Casuals**

One of Mycroft's men was sighted near Men's Casuals. The agent in question attempted to subdue the both of them by means of force.

John retaliated by locking him in a dressing room.

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**Tuesday, 3:01 PM | Second Floor, Godiva's Chocolate Café**

Another one of Mycroft's men was sighted near Godiva's Chocolate Café. Before Sherlock or John could react, however, a livid, raven-haired woman blocked their path and slapped the agent sharply on the face.

"_Ah_," Sherlock said simply. "That must be the angry ex-girlfriend."

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**Tuesday, 3:47 PM | Ground Floor, Food Halls**

"I still think we should've bought those party masks, John."

"Sherlock, _no,_" John said sternly, before obnoxiously snorting at the pout that graced the detective's features. _What was with Sherlock's obsession with those damn party masks, anyway? _The doctor changed the subject before his friend could complain more."Do you know where the other agents are?"

"Probably still at the Indonesian section," Sherlock deduced. He poked his head out of the Chinese cuisine booth they were hiding in at Harrods food hall, scaring a customer who had, up until then, been examining a package of dumplings. The detective ignored the man's shout and scanned the surrounding area for signs of Mycroft's men.

"You think Mycroft's with them?"

"No - the git's probably at the bakery," Sherlock replied before shifting back down to his previous position. He looked up at the burly Chinese chef tending to the booth and said something in Mandarin, handing him a ten-quid note. The man pocketed it and continued on with his business, pretending that the two grown men hiding in his booth didn't exist.

Sherlock stretched out his long legs and visibly relaxed, but John could still tell by his rigid stature that he was still being alert for Mycroft's men. Sherlock turned to him. "This day has turned out to be quite productive, John. Why haven't we done this before?"

"Because it's illegal," John immediately said, his tone drier than sand. "Quite frankly, I'm surprised we haven't been thrown out yet."

Sherlock nodded in agreement before turning to look at John knowingly. "You can't fool me, though, John. I know you're enjoying this," he said, smiling slyly.

The doctor snorted in response but didn't deny it. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess I am," he replied affectionately. John looked around the food hall, clearly impressed by its sheer size and the amount of food it contained. "I'd hate to be banned from this place. You think we'd still be allowed here after all this ends?"

"I doubt it. I - " Sherlock stopped talking mid-sentence, staring at something at a distance. John followed his field of vision and immediately noticed the security camera aimed right at them.

John was confused and turned back to look at Sherlock. "I thought you said there weren't any security cameras near here?"

"There wasn't," Sherlock grit out, angry that Mycroft had gotten a one-up on him. "He must have installed it while we were on the upper floor."

The detective stood up and pulled John with him. "We have to move, John" he said, moving out of the booth, but no sooner had he said that when a handful of agents spotted them. Sherlock and John bolted to the opposite direction, expertly weaving through the throng of customers.

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**Tuesday, 4:03 PM | Harrods Elevator**

The elevator was surprisingly empty as Sherlock and John made their way inside, but seeing as they were both covered in a good amount of foodstuffs, it was no surprise no one made a move to join them inside.

That thing about trying not to get themselves banned from Harrods? Well, you can say that they pretty much gave it a first-class, one-way ticket to hell. For a good ten minutes at the food hall, the both of them ran around trying to escape Mycroft's men. Sherlock had pretty much _slain_ most of the French cuisine, knocking off an entire display of truffles and hitting one of the agents with a large baguette. John, on the other hand, wasn't quite as clumsy, but he had certainly made up for it by shoving a bag full of macaroons down an agent's throat in an attempt to distract him (you could tell the doctor hadn't wanted to do that by the way his mind's mantra went something along the lines of 'what the hell am I doing, oh my God, help me, Sherlock you bastard, _no_').

The doctor was embarrassed as hell. Sherlock, the bastard, was calmly munching on chocolate truffles beside the doctor.

They both stared at the door of the elevator. After a few seconds of tense silence, they stared at each other...

...and promptly burst out into obnoxious laughter. Their guffaws reverberated around the small space, and by the time they both got back some semblance of control, John was clutching his abdomen. "Bloody hell," he managed to wheeze out, still chuckling. "Did you _see _that agent's face when you were wielding that baguette?"

"Not as bad as _your_ face was when you tried defending yourself with those chopsticks," Sherlock replied, baritone voice chuckling softly. "Chopsticks, John? Really?"

"Hey, it worked out in the end, didn't it?" John said, letting out a (_not a giggle!_) laugh. He leaned back against the wall, Sherlock copying him several seconds later. "Mycroft's gonna have our heads once he sees us."

A whistle shrilled, and Mycroft's voice came out of the elevator's speakers. "I'm glad the both of you imbeciles know."

"Oh, piss off, Mycroft," Sherlock said.

John addressed the speaker amusedly. He shook Mycroft's file in his hand as an emphasis. "What's in this thing that you're so desperate to keep private, anyway?"

The speaker was silent for a long moment. When it spoke again, Mycroft's voice was suspiciously dry, "My night schedule."

John was flummoxed. "Your night schedule...?" he said, before unpleasant images made their way into his head. John grimaced in horror. "Oh, _God_."

Sherlock pawed at the speakers, effectively terminating the transmission.

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**Tuesday, 4:19 PM | Cucina Toscana dei Frescobaldi**

While Sherlock and John were busy finishing their early dinner in the posh restaurant, Mycroft and his agents had finally caught up to them.

John nonchalantly gave Mycroft his personal file back. Sherlock, on the other hand, gave him an innocent smile and his credit card to pay for the damages. Both standing up and wiping their mouths, Sherlock and John quietly left the establishment, almost as if they hadn't just decimated a quarter of Harrods.

Mycroft could only heave a great sigh of exasperation.

* * *

**Wednesday, 11:41 PM | Diogenes Club**

Mycroft Holmes sighed in pleasure and satisfaction. Sherlock had finally surrendered his belongings, and Mycroft had done the same for him and John. His personal file was safely locked back in the vault with extra security, and the team that had been monitoring the vault when Sherlock had stolen the file had been dealt with... _accordingly_.

He felt his phone vibrate and smoothly got it out of his pocket. Sherlock had released Anthea, as well, and rather than being shaken up by the whole ordeal, his faithful secretary had only expressed a sigh of deep exasperation before turning back into her usual self. Mycroft nodded in approval.

_The damages from Harrods  
have been dealt with. Owner  
still unsure whether to sue  
or not._

_- A_

Mycroft read and reread the text, letting out a sigh. As much as he wanted Sherlock to pay for what he'd done, Mycroft couldn't do it. He _was_ still his little brother, after all - and Mummy would be disappointed.

Besides, lawyers were _such_ a hassle. Mycroft had had enough stress for that week.

The British Government sent back a quick text.

_Make sure they don't.  
Use any means ne-  
cessary._

_- Mycroft_

H waited for the chime of the sent notification before making his way into his office at the Diogenes Club. Seeing as it was nearing midnight, Mycroft was the only one left at the building, but he had urgent papers that needed tending to left on his desk. Mycroft opened the door to his office and stepped inside, only to stop himself short.

To Mycroft's utter confusion, leaning peacefully on bookends on his desk were print-out party masks of Princes William and Harry, smiling blankly at the British Government.

Less than twenty feet away from the Diogenes Club, a certain detective and his doctor were laughing and running loudly into the night.

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**Aaaaand, that concludes the story! _Children at Heart_ was a great fun to write, and I'm glad I had all of you to share it with me. It was a fun ride. :)**

**This means that this'll be the last give-away for a while (cue audience _aww_'ing pitifully), as well, so I'll make this extra special. Everyone who reviews this chapter gets a GIF of their favorite Sherlock character _and_ a character of their choice (doesn't have to be Sherlock). Just because I can. And if by chance you don't tell me your favorite character, I'mma just place in the character you remind me most of. x)**

**Leave one last review? :)**

**The End**


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